


you were the better part

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Boys in Skirts, Bucky Wears Lipgloss, Bucky sings in fishnets in a bar, But He Did it for his Friends, Drinking, Getting Together, I mean, It’s a bar, Kissing, Lingerie, M/M, Sam is going to drink, Singer!Bucky, Steve Rogers is a Manipulative Shit, boys in make up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 21:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20198290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: “When you murder him, I’ll help hide the body.” Ofcourse, Steve owns a shady establishment where he hides away Sirens in pink gloss and eyeliner. Of course he seduced Sam into going.





	you were the better part

**Author's Note:**

> the song is Panic! At the Disco’s “There’s a Good Reason these Table’s are Numbered Honey”

Sam steps through the doors of a bar he’s never seen before, despite having lived in this shitty town for _ years_, and thinks, “Of _ course _ Steve picks the sketchiest bar this side of the pacific to send me to.”

He also immediately understands why Steve I-go-to-Church-nine-times-a-week didn’t come with him.

The place is…

It’s not dirty, not sticky the way he expects a bar to be. The air tastes strange, spicy. _ Incense,_ he recognizes. But subtle, not thick, doesn’t make his nose itch. He sniffs, frowning. Actually, it’s almost a sweet spice, something heady that makes him feel soft, languid. 

He’s here to relax, and it seems to be working. “Fuckin’ Budapest,” Sam sighs. 

Because he’s been tense since he took a trip back, and it’s a damn beautiful place, but he hates going. He hates how Steve always kicks him out of the apartment after they get back. 

“You’re too wound up, Sam. Go let off steam, do what you do,” Steve had said, handing him a card. “Here, order a liquid marijuana.” Honestly, the blush on Steve’s face when he’d suggested it had really been enough to convince Sam.

He feels a little funny in his dark grey button up and in his jeans, but there doesn’t seem to be a real dress code, so he finds a booth and when asked, gets the green drink. It splashes sweet across his tongue, almost _ girly _ sweet, but he likes it. 

The lights dim, and Sam almost snorts because they were already low, but then a stage he didn’t notice burst into the haziest of golds, red curtains splitting down the middle and fairies twinkling like rain down the sides. 

Sam has to squint at first, to see the shadow in the center. And then it’s like a camera coming into focus and all he can see is miles of _ legs_. 

Thick as fuck thighs, sharp calves caged by gunmetal grey fishnets, soft-looking curls peaking through the diamnond bars. Sam is alone in this bar, no Steve to side-eye him as he tracks up, up, up, to an ass so round, Sam has to wonder if the dark red boyshorts are padded. There’s a sheer black skirt hanging over the shorts, a gauzy slip of a thing that does nothing to hide the thick muscles of the lower back. A back that gets lost in a black corset, pale and broad shoulders spilling over the top. Sam leans forward, tries to see where that pale neck leads, but whoever is standing up there has their head tilted into the shadows. 

Sam spends so long staring at that ass, trying to draw his eyes away from it, trying to imagine how it’ll feel in his hands, he misses the first few beats of the sound pouring from the rafters. He almost laughs when he recognizes it, but the shadow on stage turns around, voice like smokey silk wafting through the air, and Sam? 

Sam is having a Crisis.

The guy, _ it’s definitely a guy_, has the palest blue eyes rimmed in the darkest black charcoal, and a beard Sam wants to fucking lick. Pouty lips, pink as a new rose, smirk. _ Please leave all overcoats, canes, and top-hats at the door… _

Sam doesn’t even give a shit about the rest of the words, watching the guy’s hips sway in his fuckin skirt and boyshorts that tell Sam he is Fun In Bed. Probably. The same broad shoulders he saw from the back curl into a sharp collarbone, peeking out from the top of a corset that manages to make his pecs look… _ I bet to them your name is cheap, _and he catches Sam’s eyes and winks. 

Sam swallows, his own eyes tracing the dark red detailing of the top. He doesn’t know what to call the design, except it looks _ murderous_, and judging by the precise sway of the hips, the thick hands gripping the mic stand, Sam thinks the guy might could murder him. 

Sam finds himself disturbingly okay with the thought. In fact, he might be two seconds and the right touch away from getting off to that thought. 

Some of the singer’s hair fall falls out of his bun, long dark strands curling around his face, and belatedly Same realizes, absurdly, this asshole is fucking barefoot. “Of course,” Sam mutters. “Of course he is.”

_ Haven’t you heard that, I’m the new cancer…. _

Yeah, Sam thinks, yeah I’d smoke that. 

Fuck if this dude hasn’t totally twisted Sam in all the bestworst ways, and then the song is over and the curtains are closing and Sam lets out a whine he’s certain people heard but he can’t care. 

That was a whole pale being, dressed in guaze and murder and fishnests and fucking pink lipgloss, and Sam _ wants_. 

The room’s lighting shifts. Sam downs his drinks in two gulps, orders another one, and two shots of vodka, and a glass of whiskey and tries to calculate how long it’ll take him to calm down so he can _ get the fuck out _ and _ get the fuck off_. 

He’s finished his first one, and then knocked back a shot of vodka, when something warm and heavy drops into the seat next to him.

Sam has jumped out of motherfuckin’ planes, but he has never in his life been so scared to look at something.

When he finally turns his head, it’s as bad as he expected and oh so much worse. Singer is sitting next to him, eyeliner smeared and lipgloss fresh, but he’s removed the skirt and changed into what might count as a shirt if it weren’t _ completely fucking see-through. _

Icy blue eyes smirk at him, and long fingers snatch his second shot, knocking it back in one smooth motion. “Haven’t seen _ you _ before,” he says. His voice, smooth and silky when singing, is surprisingly low and gravely when he speaks which is sending Sam’s libido right back into DEFCON 1 levels of crisis.

He squeaks, and the guy smiles gently, ice-eyes crinkling as he holds a hand out. “Hey there, I’m Bucky.” 

Sam snorts and takes the hand, warm and calloused. “You’re sin, but I’ll call you whatever you like,” and _ Jesus Christ _ thank god Steve isn’t here because Sam left his A-game somewhere with his last shreds of “I’m just a normal guy with normal interest.” 

Bucky just smiles at him, all teeth and amusement. “Your name?” 

Same cocks an eyebrow. “Do you really care?”

Bucky leans in and he smells like sweet sweat, vodka, and something sugary. Probably the gloss. “It’s nice to know what to call out, when I come.” 

Sam is going to go to Church every single time Steve goes, to repent for what he’s gonna do tonight, but that’s you know, _ after_. “Sam.”

“My place is just a few blocks away,” he says.

Bucky laughs. “My place is closer. C’mon.” He pulls Sam up, leads him to a door behind the curtains, up a stairwell. 

Sam remembers the murderous detailing on the corset and thinks, _ Nope, still okay with dying this way. _

He really ought to see about getting a therapist, the way he tells some of his more troubled guys too. 

Tomorrow.

If he survives. 

Bucky’s room is surprisingly simple. A bed with soft, rumpled sheets, a bookshelf stuffed with worn stories, a boudoir spilling with lacy things, flannels, and jeans. Sam doesn’t care. As soon as the door shuts he grabs Bucky by the wrist and spins them, pins Bucky to the wall. He licks at those fuckin’ pink lips and yeah, they taste like sugar and wax. Bucky laughs into Sam’s lungs, but he doesn’t stop him. Sam lets his hands go so he can pull Sam closer while Sam tilts his head.

Bucky kisses like he sings, silky and smokey and seductive, all teasing bites and roaming hands. Sam wants to be in charge, and Bucky isn’t used to letting someone else take the lead.

Sam twist his fingers, tugs Bucky’s soft hair out of its tie, uses it to force Bucky’s head where he wants it. 

Bucky retaliates with an almost painful press of teeth to Sam’s jaw, and a slow roll of his hips into Sam’s crotch, and Sam wraps his fingers arounds strong wrist once more. 

Sam, he ain’t no singer, but he lets out a low noise and Bucky sucks in a breath. “Alright Sam, you wanna take this to the bed?”

Sam tilts his head, ponders. He moves, shoves a knee between Bucky’s thighs and pushes, watches ice melt and inky lashes flutter. “I’m good right here,” he grins. 

Bucky isn’t okay here. He finally fights back and those milky muscles Sam (still) wanted to lick are not just for show. He twists his hands, breaks Sam’s grip and then grabs his shirt to shove him back until Sam’s knees hit the bed and he lands with a thud that makes him huff out a laugh. 

Bucky yanks his not-shirt over his head, smearing a little gloss and liner and ruffling his hair and Sam can’t even care because Holy Shit, Bucky is a fucking marble god, with fucking painted on dark curls. He leers down at _ Sam_, like they’re somehow on equal footing. “You seem a little overdressed down there,” Bucky drawls. 

“Do somethin’ about it,” Sam grouses. 

Ice-melt goes dark and then Bucky’s fingers are yanking at the buttons of Sam’s expensive shirt. The buttons chink against the wooden floor and later, Sam’s probably gonna be half pissed because this is a nice shirt and all, but right now, he’s staring at statuesque hands splayed across his chest and the contrast…

This is why Steve fuckin’ draws, man. 

“Smooth,” Bucky says. He sounds almost reverent. 

“Goddamn it, Bucky,” Sam groans. 

Bucky just grins and prods a little, until Sam walks himself up the bed and is laying, head on the pillows, so Bucky can straddle him. Sam, because he’s an asshole and also because he _ wan_, hooks his fingers into murder red boyshorts and pulls down, just enough to get a glimpse of sharp hip bones. “God have mercy,” he mumbled. 

It earns him a laugh, a real, fully belly thing that suddenly makes Bucky looks soft and shy, the beginnings of a flush in the hollow of his neck, cutting up below his ears. Sam smiles. 

He curls his fingers over Buck’s shoulders and pulls util Bucky’s palms land on either side of his head, the bed bouncing just a bit, and he licks the pink skin.

Bucky taste the way the bar had smelled, spicy-sweet in a way that made Sam feel floaty. He bites, gentle at first, until he finds a dark nub and clenches, and Bucky’s hands twist in the sheets and he _ whines _ as melodic as his stupid song had been. 

Sam moves his hands around Bucky’s back, strokes down until he can brush his fingers over the swell of that ass. 

He’s curious, so he pushes his fingers just below the silky material. “Shit, no padding.” 

Bucky leans up a little, offense carved into his cheeks, “S’cuze me?” 

Sam just closes his eyes and groans. “Ain’t no way you’re real man. Ain’t no fuckin’ way this ain’t some laced-air trip and I’m gonna wake up tomorrrow in a creep-murder’s bed confused about how I got there.”

Bucky gives him a look that could rival Steve’s unimpressed glare. He hooks his own fingers into his shorts and yanks down, snagging on the fishnets and taking them too. It takes a little maneuvering, but then he’s standing above Sam, hands on his hip and cock red and leaking. “Real enough now?” 

Sam blinks. Then he blinks again. Because he is definitely dead, but he doesn’t know if he’s in heaven or hell right now and shit fuck if he cares. “Tell me you got something,” he demands, fingers grappling with his button and _ fuck _ jeans. 

Bucky still looks a little annoyed but he drops back to his knees and reaches over Sam to the drawer. He fishes around a bit before pulling out a foil wrapper and a bottle and grinning lecherously. Sam snorts, but he’s finally kicking his jeans and boxers down, losing them on the floor somewhere. 

Bucky is staring at him again, something unreadable in his eyes. 

Sam rolls over, props himself up on his elbows and looks back at Bucky. “I know we got all night, but you still gotta move at _ some point.” _

Bucky thumps him in the back. He sets the bottle and the wrapper down, splays his hands on Sam’s back, kneading the flesh and looking his fill. “Some of us are gentlemen, Sam.” 

“Is that what you call it?” Sam snarks. He lifts his hips a little, trying for something Bucky won’t give. He gets a slap to his ass for his troubles and honest, Sam’s never really been a kinks guy, but the electricity he feels at the contact makes his whole body go tight. “Seriously though, if you don’t _ do something _ soon, I’m going to take care of myself.”

“So demanding,” Bucky sighs dramatically. Sam hears the cap pop, the squelch of liquid. Bucky waste no time parting Sam’s ass cheeks, pressing a finger to his hole and Sam can’t help hissing because it’s cold. 

Buck laughs, presses his lips to the top of Sam’s spin. “Sorry, I thought you wanted me to move.” 

He presses in before Sam can respond which, cheating, but Sam isn’t exactly complaining. Bucky has obviously done this at least one other time in his life, and Sam really wants to make comments, but every time he so much as catches his breath, Bucky either crooks a finger, or adds one. Finally, when Sam’s got his teeth tight against his own wrist, Bucky pulls his fingers out and lines himself up. 

“Ready?” He asks gently.

Sam knows he should be greatful that this asshole has a sense of decency, wants to make sure he’s okay, but Sam is So Fucking Done with the teasing. “_Please_,” he half-snarls. 

Bucky complies easily, pushing in slow, gentle, until he’s flush against Sam, a too-hot weight that feels like all good things. When Sam’s fingers twist, and he turns and catches ice-melt eyes, licks pink-sugar lips in a plea he can’t voice, Bucky moves.

He fucks Sam hard, desperate, worshipful all in one powerful flurry of hips and grunts. Sam, at this point, is mostly just along for the ride, and he kind of wishes he’d stayed on his back because twisting his neck to watch the way Bucky’s eyebrows furrow and his eyes squint and his mouth puckers is a little painful but so fucking worth it. 

Bucky gets a hand between Sam’s body and the mattress, finds his cock, and strokes it with a slick hand and Sam stops seeing anything but starburst and white, too many feelings making his chest go tight. 

He’s honest to god not sure which of them comes first, but it doesn’t matter as they slump against the sweat soaked sheets together, breathless and beautiful. He says it, too. “You’re damn beautiful, Bucky, you know that?”

Bucky just snorts a derisive laugh. “Bet you say that to all the dames you seduce.”

Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, so I seduced you is it?” 

Bucky props his head in a palm and leans up on an elbow. “Well, that’s certainly the story I’m gonna tell. This dark piece of handsome skulks into my bar and buys me a drink and I can’t help but say my thanks.” He flutters his lashes and Sam leans forward to kiss them, just to make him quit. 

“Mhm,” he mumbles. “See, my story is, this fucking priss dancing around barefoot on a stage, some piece of ass with siren blood sang a song and it would be rude not to answer that calling.”

Bucky laughs again, softer this time, gentler. He places a hand against Sam’s check, and Sam kisses his palm. “Think I like you, Sam.”

“Think I like you too, Bucky.” 

“What do you say you stick around for a bit? I don’t think the owner would mind too terribly,” Bucky says. He’s shy suddenly, eyes downcast and cheeks rosy, but he glances up and Sam smiles.

“Well, if the owner doesn’t mind…” 

Bucky gets a look in his eyes. Something devious, something _ wicked._ “I mean, he did send you here all wrapped up and ready for me…” there’s something in the way he says it that makes alarm bells toll.

Sam narrows his eyes. “Hey, Bucky.”

“Hey, Sam.” 

“Who owns this joint?” 

Bucky gapes at him for a moment. “You don’t know?”

Sam shakes his head and Bucky groans. “Buck?”

“I’m going to fucking _ murder _ Steve,” Bucky hisses. “‘Look for the guy with the liquid marijuana’ he says,” and Sam can hear the mockery in Bucky’s voice. 

“When you murder him, I’ll help hide the body.” Of _ course_, Steve owns a shady establishment where he hides away Sirens in pink gloss and eyeliner. Of course he seduced Sam into going. He lays there for a moment, fingers stroking Bucky’s hair. “We should shower, plan our wedding, and then figure out the logistics of murder and conspiracy,” he announces. 

“Marriage?” 

Sam looks at Bucky, smiles softly. “You really think I’m gonna let anyone else answer that Siren call? You’re stuck with me now, Buck. Plus I have a deep desire to see you in every flimsy item hanging out of your boudoir, and I feel like that’s gonna take some time.” Bucky slaps him gently, and yeah, Sam has _ definitely _ got some new kinks to explore. “Besides. Of all the trouble Steve’s shenanigans have gotten me into the last few years? You were the better part,” Sam says gently. 

Bucky goes all icy-mist eyed on him and kisses him like Sam is holy. 

And maybe he doesn’t make it to Church with Steve the next morning, but he thinks God’ forgive him, what with worshiping His creation and all. 


End file.
